Yours
by Kalims
Summary: A romantic tragedy about a boundless love, and a cruel affair to match.


**Yours**

Matt stumbled on his own feet, and he wobbly fell face-first on the green grass that extended over his whole front yard. He groaned, in amusement more than of tiredness, and he rolled lazily on his back. His moistened eyes opened to the sky, and he sniggered loudly at the way the stars above shone . . . They had nothing on him; he was the brightest star in the universe.

The comment he heard on a radio station about his concert, just mere seconds ago on his way back in the limo, silenced anyone who had the tastelessness of disagreeing. Man, tonight's party was one hell of a party, Matt thought as he made no attempt of moving from his place. He was beat and wasted and sleepy, and the night is always too young for him to enter his house.

He'd never really go in, for all that he cared, if he could spend his life on the stage, the audience ever-present. Yes, ever since his ultimate ambition was an actual reality, he wouldn't dare loosening his grasp, and each time felt like it was the first – the thrill, the anticipation, the rush – all there every single time.

And by God, he couldn't get enough.

Matt's head shook, and he realized it wasn't an involuntary effect of the drug when a lock of hair brushed against his face. Will knelt beside him and endeavored to pull his upper body up, and despite the hazy vision he recognized her, because she smelled like cinnamon and clean clothes and home. She was dragging him inside, grunting in effort as she tried to heave his whole body of six feet. Maybe if she'd listened to him and gone out more often instead of living as if she were locked in, she wouldn't have find this so tiring.

But she hadn't; never since the minute he'd met her, and never now. Actually, if he was really to ponder, all that Will'd ever done was to talk, to protest, and to complain. He'd married this shrieking machine because he only assumed every other woman was like that, and he hadn't much to do back then anyway.

"Matt, would you help me here please," he heard her murmur, didn't really get why she was whispering, but he sighed heavily and put both of his palms on the ground, sensing pavement – which meant he was on his doorstep – and pushed up with Will's help till he was on his feet, for mere moments only until he crumbled against her. She grimaced at his weight, yet she put his arm around her neck allowing him to lean as she walked him into the house.

See, she was useful, and that was why Matt kept her. That, and because she wasn't a real obstacle in his way – anything, but a hindrance to his living dream; he'd kill her.

She walked him till the bedroom, and he was unaware of her thoughtfulness in not turning any light on, fearing of hurting his eyes. Of course he wouldn't notice, for in his mind the gig, with its visual effects and loud music and the crowd going crazy, was still vivid. He grinned – he grinned in remembrance of his glory and he grabbed Will's arm when she pushed him on the bed, pulling her down atop of him.

"Matt," she gasped and shifted to stand, but his other hand was already on her waist, under her shirt, as the other kept her close firmly. "Matt, you're drunk." He let out a rickety, guttural laugh at that, humored by this attempt. Ha, if the twins – the _Siamese _twins – hadn't worked him out; a little drunkenness wouldn't.

"Will, babe . . . just come here." She opposed furthermore, however obviously halfheartedly. She couldn't resist it; she liked it – him, his body, his charm. All women liked it and she was just playing hard to get.

"Please Matt, let me go," the way she repeatedly said his name – oh yeah, definitely just playing. But Matt was a little too bored to let her stall, and he smiled as he won the game, with Will now almost completely under him now. She gave up all resistance when he started kissing her neck, and he grinned as he heard her gasp in pleasure. His head felt now awfully heavy but he wasn't going to disappoint her.

Plus, the night was still young.

* * *

><p>The outside was so quiet, but she had lost all kinds of inner-peace a long time ago.<p>

Will stood facing the window of her bedroom, fixing her right sleeve as her husband snored and groaned in bed. He'd fallen asleep right after he'd done with her, and she'd pushed him off her and covered his body with sheets to protect him from the icy breeze.

She felt a lump in her throat, as she remembered rushing to get sheets for him instead of covering her own naked skin first. She couldn't believe she'd still do that, after all he'd done to her . . . She had almost burst into tears this time. It was all so crushing and demeaning, to have to go through this again and again. And she couldn't fight him – she couldn't force him away, afraid that she'd hurt him physically, since he was always too drunk to maintain balance. Will couldn't hurt him.

It was wrong but it was true, and Will wished that fact to go away, like she wished for the smell of alcohol that reeked from the room and her own skin to disappear, because she'd had enough of it.

Naturally, she knew, smiling bitterly, that it was better said that done. She'd told herself she was done with all of this years ago, and still she was here. She'd always be here and she'd always be heartbroken, knowing what her husband did. She knew about the drugs, the women, the insanity of his gigs. She knew she felt guilty.

Absurd feeling. She shouldn't, but he meant that much to her. Will couldn't lie to herself, or to anybody, that Matt was _still_ everything to her. Throughout his fame, she had kept supporting him, and she even used to attend his concerts, look away from the stuff she didn't like, and cheer for him. That was until the past year, however, when she almost stopped going anywhere.

She and Matt were walking to their vehicle trough a massive crowd of paparazzi, his fast footsteps making it harder for her to keep on, and the flashing of cameras and questions and people weren't really helping. He had been unfocused and careless, and he'd opened the front door hard, hitting her swollen belly with force and she had bled.

The baby had bled.

And they both died that night.

Yet Will had kept whatever spirit she had left for Matt. She had stuck beside him, and that statement was spoken with neither haughtiness nor even a sense of worth; after all, it was her job. For better and for worse. In sickness and in health.

A duty not assigned to her by a priest with a marriage certificate, but by something much bigger.

Her heart.

The heart that refused to weaken when her mother had warned her. Her advice was very accurate and correct: _love alone doesn't make you a successful marriage._

Will sniffled and looked over her shoulder at the dozed Matt. She bit her lower lip, her chest squeezing with both pain and passion.

Love alone didn't make her a successful marriage – that was for sure – but it was love, and only love, that made her _stay_.

* * *

><p>Matt smelled something fishy. "Shit, guys. Didn't I say that whoever eats tuna here immediately <em>opens the window<em>? I hate how it smells!" He grimaced, and was about to open the glass himself, but the bus shook as its driver hit the brakes and he found himself falling on the couch.

"Sorry 'bout that, but I ate when we were back at the album-signing, and if I'd opened the window, some crazy chick would've jumped in."

"Then why didn't you?" Matt smiled at his other friend's reply and he stood up to grab a beer from the mini-fridge, only to find out there were only energy drinks.

"Who drank all the beer!" His growl was answered with strange looks from the band's members.

"You did." They said in union and chuckled, leaving him to sigh and kick the fridge with his foot.

"Remind me to stop at a store and by some more."

"Oh, that reminds me," Keith, the drummer, chirped in. "Will says you need to buy a jacket; all yours are stained so she couldn't pack 'em."

"What?"

"She never had the chance to talk to you today, so she told me instead." He informed, and being a reserved guy in nature, he didn't ask how come Matt hadn't told his wife goodbye when he was leaving for tour for quite a while.

Plus, it hardly was the first time.

"That woman!" The man scowled as he rushed to find his luggage. "Don't tell me she didn't pack my favorite jacket!"

"Buy another favorite one, Matty boy, you have the money."

"And if it was a sales_woman_ you can get it for free; you have the balls." The boys laughed at this half joke and Matt rolled his eyes, though his anger towards Will had ceased – replaced only by ingratitude and indifference.

"Fine. Whatever. Let's just get to the fucking hotel we're staying in for the night; I need a king-sized hot tub." He turned to the driver. "Bud, give us a ride that suits rocks stars, for God's sake. Speed up!" His request was instantly answered as the four men felt the vehicle going faster. Matt grinned; he liked speed. "There you go, you old goose. Keep on like this and–" He didn't know what happened and how, but Bud's gushed "get away!" and screaming were heard by his ears, then the bus rumbled, and there was endless shattering of glass . . . shattering and breaking . . . metal smashing, crunching. And then at last, after one mere moment of silence that pierced his ears, everything stopped and the world was black.

* * *

><p>Blackness wasn't unusual for him, really. He had known throughout his entire life a fine number of times where that color blinded his vision and mind.<p>

There was one time, when he smiled dizzily at a teenager at least ten years younger than him. She was in the front row – had paid quite a lot to be at this spot – and she was cheering and shouting and singing. After all, Matt wasn't a scumbag to not give her the show she'd come asking for. The show he was so sure he'd get a special thank you from her afterwards. And he jumped with his guitar in his hands, tried to do a flip in the air, and his head bumped first on the ground. There had been black at that moment.

And then, he opened his eyes and there was light, and Will was holding a bandage, carefully placing it on his forehead. She smiled at his confused, weary expression, and she gave his wound a lovely peck, as soft as feathers.

Another time, not too long after, or maybe not too long before. His glass was raised above his head, and with the shouting of "chug, chug, chug!" he drank, drank, and drank. Blackness hit him hard, and he couldn't really remember how he'd gotten there, but there was light and his face was in the toilet, throwing his guts out with a hand caressing and patting his back. This same hand, Will's, helped him up.

Different occasions, similar memory. Also like when he lost big money on the gambling table, and he felt like breaking everything, hitting everyone . . . He came home after he'd had a fight with the casino's manager, drugged and still angry . . . and there had been black alright, and Will's left eye remained like this for weeks, and he considered himself forgiven subsequent an apology. Light was a little slower this time, but when it had came, it was engulfing Will's whole face, in her hands a very beautiful, very expensive watch as a birthday gift. And she was smiling as if she'd forgotten all.

. . . Was there a sort of pattern?

Matt heavily half-opened his eyes, and he heard unfamiliar noises and too many figures clouded his already hazy vision. It was tiring and he gave up, his eyes closing again.

One little picture suddenly appeared, and unlike the others, it was tender right from the beginning: it was the night his band signed with a huge record company, and no, it wasn't about his celebration with his friends and his first hangover. This started with a scene that happened earlier that night. One that he was too blind and too tyrant to remember, and so it was lost for years in the better part of his mind.

"_My heart belongs to you, Matt Olsen." Will was smiling, letting out a giggle of warm and overwhelming sounds when his hands gently grabbed her waist, holding her high and circling around himself._

"_Will . . . I made it!" He still couldn't believe himself. His dream, now a reality, was less than one step away. And he had Will to share his delight with him; perfect._

"_I knew you would do it. I've always known." She was brought back on her feet, and suddenly into his arms as he embraced her tightly, kissing her forehead with so much ardor and gratitude._

"_Will, I – I . . ." Yes, she was the only one who believed in him the whole time. "I didn't really plan this but . . ." The only one who made it less unbearable for him to live with the chance of not realizing his wish. "And I know it's not really . . . perfect or romantic but," he smiled nervously and swallowed, as she never left his gaze, "will you marry me, Will?"_

He left her that night with an amorous kiss and went to catch his friends, as she said goodbye with unyielding devotion.

And in reality, he never came back.

Abruptly, the images were fading, and as if someone had splashed cold water on him, Matt felt his whole senses coming back in one wave, and he frowned, waking up, his eyes opening just slightly to adjust to the brightness.

His blue orbs were slow in scanning his surroundings, waiting to spot someone or something recognizable. He blinked a few times before his head turned from side to side, inspecting the place. He found himself in bed, in an unfamiliar room. White sheets, a cardiographer next to him . . . a hospital.

He groaned in fatigue and tired to sit up, only to clench his teeth together when his chest ached. His face was a grimace as he put his hand over his heart and clutched his robe material and the skin underneath. He let out a long exhale and breathed heavily, and he tried to arise again. "Aah, man!" He screeched in pain, but managed to straighten his back in a sitting position. He shook his head; what was going on?

"Mr. Olsen?" A man – a Doctor, judging his clothes – stepped in the room with a few quick steps. "You're awake, at last." He seemed pleased, a little surprised, but what caught Matt's attention was the rigidity around the tips of his smile. "How do you feel?"

"I . . . Like I've been fucking shot. Or beaten with a baseball bat." He stated truthfully and watched as the Doctor checked the heart machine's screen with a small nod.

"Actually it's neither. You've been in a dangerous truck accident." He turned his gaze to him. "Do you remember anything?"

"I . . ." Loud crashing noises played like drums in his ears. "I was in the band's bus. With the guys . . ."

"They are alright, only suffering from cuts and bruises, and a case of a minor concussion. It's you, sir, who had us worried the most."

"What happened to me?"

"We think that a piece of broken glass has penetrated your chest, severely cutting an artery. Your heart has failed. We had to rush you into a heart transplant surgery, and quickly." The surgeon's expression suddenly turned grim, but he clearly tried to show optimism. "If we didn't have the donor right at the same day, we would've lost you." He confessed slowly, for it was obvious that Matt was having trouble with taking in the news. "You've been in a coma, for about four days now."

Matt's expression was dazed, stupefied and he looked at his lying body. He was so close to death. Actually, if he was to speak accurately, he'd really died for some time. He'd survived. He'd seen the light again.

Oh God, the light!

In one wave, flashbacks invaded his mind, and he recognized them all. He'd seen them while unconscious, dreamt of them . . . They came like a blade; sharp and quick, causing him to bleed with a feeling that awfully felt like sorrow.

Will . . .

Maybe at the same time, all these flashbacks – the memories that still overwhelmed him – were his heaven. His epiphany.

Perhaps a sign from God, of a second chance? Because for all that he cared, he was going to set some things right. "Doctor, where . . . where's my wife? Is she here?" He asked and his voice undeniably cracked, and he didn't care if the other man thought it was from weariness or knew the real reason.

Apparently the Doctor didn't care either, as his features were turned into a solemn expression and he sighed lengthily. "Your wife had come as soon as she found out – a mere two hours after the accident. I told her about your situation, and that we've asked for a heart from another hospital but it may not come in time." Matt was so focused on hearing that he didn't notice when the man's hand flew to his pocket, letting out a piece of paper. "She . . . she left you a note."

"What? What did she say?" His fingers quickly snatched the paper and he rushed to open it. She'd said she had enough, of course. She'd left him. He knew she did. But she'd left a note, and that meant that she'd believed he'd make it. Despite everything, she had always believed in him.

Agony struck him hard, but he was determined on reading her words to him. He'll listen to her, for once in his life. And then he'd go find her and make things right.

"I am confounded to tell you, she has committed suicide . . ." Matt's fingers were faster than his mind as the Doctor suddenly spoke, "she was found dead, in her car, but she left a note next to her, right beside this one, explaining the reasons . . . or the one reason, really. I swear, this is the first time I consider suicide, heroic." The Doctor's voice came to a halt, as well as the whole world, as Matt's eyes went wide as he read the finally open letter in excruciating woe, breaking all of his hopes and his thoughts of atonement.

_I told you it was yours._

* * *

><p><strong>A.N: Whoa, did I really just write that about my favorite couple? 0-0 Guess Valentine's gotten into me ;D Nah, I didn't really intend to publish it during this romantic and busy preValentine period, but it's been a while since I posted anything and I didn't have anything suitable for the occasion anyway ^^<strong>

**I hope you've enjoyed it anyhow, 'cause this was really fun (heartbreaking) to write. Take care everyone!  
><strong>


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